


My Blood, Your Blood

by Dangereuse



Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [19]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bleeding, Harry is that wanker that bleeds all over your floor, M/M, Magic but not HP Magic, Mild Gore, There is a violent injury but it's not talked about in detail, blood bonds, tom is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/pseuds/Dangereuse
Summary: Every drop of Harry's blood belongs to Tom, andevery single one of them needs to stay inside his body.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692079
Comments: 7
Kudos: 118





	My Blood, Your Blood

When Harry was twelve and Tom was thirteen, Harry got hit by a car. They were riding their bikes, tooling around on an early spring day, doing wheelies and jetting around each other. There was a distracted driver. Harry got crushed.

His bike twisted into an unrecognizable shape and Harry got lifted up and over and down again. He landed in a mess, all akimbo. Red leaked out of his torso and limbs, and grey seeped out of his skull.

Tom jammed a twisted bike spoke through both their palms and Bound Harry to him.

They spent the next three days in a hospital bed together, hands bound together now with sterile gauze, comatose and barely breathing, and another month after that exhausted and napping all over each other and the nearest soft surface like cats.

Harry's been Tom’s ever since.

***

A twisted up bike spoke at twelve and thirteen isn't how it's supposed to happen, not even close, and the Bond sometimes twists and tugs between them.

“Tom,” Harry whines, coming out from his room. His right hand is bleeding, his own one handed stigmata. “I need to finish my homework and I can't write like this.” He’s pouting and dripping all over the wood floor like an utter wanker, so Tom just scowls.

“Come here,” he orders, putting his own book aside. He pulls his pocket knife out with alacrity, flips open the blade. It's hardly traditional, but Tom's hardly going to carry around his family's athame in a pocket; it wouldn't fit to begin with and sadly, this happens too often. Tom has carved the proper runes and wetted it in his own blood; made this blade perfectly serviceable. He even welded a tiny slice of a certain piece of aluminum to the handle, for the thaumaturgical resonance. 

Tom cuts his own palm with practiced precision, lines their hands up and presses them together.

Harry goes soft at the contact. He leans in, rests his forehead on Tom's collarbone. “That always feels so weird,” Harry slurs.

Tom doesn't say anything, just clutches the back of Harry's neck with his free hand. He strokes the downy hairs there idly, tracks the rise and fall of Harry's breaths.

After a few minutes, Tom pulls their hands apart. Harry's hand is fixed up, good as new besides an old puckered silver scar, not even a crust of blood tacky in his palm.

“Thanks, Tom.” Harry's head lolls a little on his neck, a sodden flower on a bruised stem, but his smile is bright enough to blind.

“I hope you know you'll be cleaning that up,” Tom says, snootily, jerking his chin at the floor.

Harry rolls his eyes, doesn’t move away from Tom on the couch. He knows it's an utter lie.

Tom can't bear to see Harry bleed.


End file.
